Sitting on the edge of the bed, he stretched one metallic arm out and reached for the discarded clothing strewn across his floor. With a practiced delicacy, his claw-like hands gently grasped the crumpled stockings. It was a wonder to watch as his hinged thumbs pulled open the elasticated lace-tops and his titanium fingers scrunched the length of the silk ready for his foot to slip into. He was always mindful to lubricate before going to bed each night; a drop of oil or WD40 behind his knees and between each toe helped prevent the hosiery from snagging. Tricks of the trade.

He stood and moved heavily across the room to retrieve a shell-pink satin basque that hung across the back of a chair. Holding it up to cover his polished rectangular chest, his elbows were able to bend in the wrong direction and his head swiveled one-hundred-and-eighty degrees so he could look down and easily fasten the hooks and eyes at the back. He righted himself, turning his arms and head back to their regular direction so as to check his reflection in a dusty full-length mirror. Letting out a little binary sigh, he took a pair of silicone pads and stuffed them into the two hidden pockets in the underwired cups.

His feet slipped easily into a pair of heavy Doc Marten boots and he took a long leather coat from the back of the door, fastening it around his waist with a belt. Checking his pocket for his keys, he opened the front door, slammed it behind him and waked back out into the night.